


Stigmata

by Trent_In_A_Tree



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Unhappy Ending, heavily implied pseudo no homo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:37:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trent_In_A_Tree/pseuds/Trent_In_A_Tree
Summary: 'Control was Brian's muse, and yet, one day, he lost his temper.'





	Stigmata

**Author's Note:**

> finally I finished my first b-day giveaway fic; hopefully it's good. it's supposed to be based on the song stigmata by ministry, and it's also supposed to be 1k, but I took artistic license with both, and so tumblr user fateblood (who doesn't have an AO3 so just _imagine_ that it's gifted to you, okay??) may be getting a lil more than they bargained for, in a good way.
> 
> this was fun to write-- I haven't done angst in a while!! hope u enjoy

Brian's breathing was soft when Brad woke up, cuddling next to him. The sharp gashes on Brian's chest from a few days before were healing now into angry red lines. They prohibited Brad from laying his head on Brian's chest. Instead, he nuzzled between Brian's arm and the side of his bony ribcage. The mattress on which the men lay sat on the floor of Brian's apartment-- their friends and band members frequented the space, though as far as Brad knew, he was the only one to frequent the bed. There was a crick in his back, and so he shifted, curls tumbling down Brian's arm, causing the man to mumble and stir.

 

"You awake?" Brian murmured inquiringly, and Brad made a noise of ascent, twisting his neck to look up at the other man.

 

Brian's eyes were shut, and his face was bare; no stains of makeup from their last performance remained. The night directly after a performance, Brian often had marks of black stuck to his skin, no matter how much he tried to remove his face paint. Makeup stayed on his eyelashes and in the areas at the very edge of his eyes. Then, a few days would pass and his face would be clean, yet hard like granite. Brian cracked his eyes open, showing Brad a sliver of dark brown that glowed with energy when he was Marilyn, and showed flashes of honesty when his tongue said otherwise as Brian. 

 

Brian's eyes were pretty-- it made Brad get soppy, "Imagine if we were always together like this."

 

"Hmm, that would be impractical," Brian hummed, "How would we make money?"

 

"Just think about it," Brad sighed, looking at Brian's angular face and digesting his beauty, "Isn't that what a means to be young? We can be fanciful. Okay?"

 

"We don't have to be right here in this bed for me to promise to always be here with you," Brian said, his eyes falling shut as Brad's fingers slid up his chest, the gentle touch over the cuts still drawing a wince out of Brian.

 

"Kind of you," Brad murmured, trying to sound nonchalant, despite the redness that rose in his cheeks and the warm and desire that flowed all the way to the tips of his fingers.

 

"It's true," Brian assured, as Brad lifted his fingers from Brian's chest, placing his hand on the other man's cheek.

 

Brad shifted his body up the bed, careful not to mash Brian's arm in the process. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Brian's lips, and Brian sighed gently against Brad's mouth. He laced a strong, long-fingered hand into Brad's curls, as his dark eyes flickered open, displaying comfort and want. Brian reached up to clutch Brad's bicep in his other hand to lock their lips in rough, messier purses than the ones that had been initiated by the bassist. Brian was methodical, Brad had noticed, and he executed all his actions with intentionality, force, and power. Even sex. Brad often squirmed; driven to the edge by the hands that now held him, and the lips that now kissed him, and yet, Brian never relented; he never lost his touch, never lost his control.

\--

Control was Brian's muse, and yet, one day, he lost his temper. 

 

"I am so sick and fucking tired of this!" Brian spat, at the moment when he entered his apartment, to see Brad curled on his bed, his clothes filthy, and his hair a tangled mess.

 

Brad's body wanted to start, but could not-- his inebriation instead forced out a pained little moan from between his lips. The drugs that flowed through his veins made him feel almost as good as Brian's hands, except while Brian's control was driven by love, the drugs' was driven by place, time, and practicality. 

 

"You come fucking late to everything, you're sick all the time, and--" Brian's voice broke, and his eyes steamed with fiery anger, yet wettened themselves with mourning, "I'm fucking terrified for you."

 

"Why..." Brad croaked, desperately trying to make himself say something to Brian; debauched Brian driven to his wits' end.

 

"You aren't you when you're like this," Brian pointed a finger aggressively at Brad's curled up form, "You are my friend, and I want you around."

 

"When are you _you_ , though?" Brad replied, dazedly stuttering the statement out through teeth that felt like they were echoing with silence.

 

"Wh-what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Brian threw his hands up.

 

"Marilyn-- Manson-- _Brian_ \-- it all breaks down to a snarling mess of animals with the same eyes," Brad replied, rolling over.

 

"Manson, Marilyn-- acts!" Brian snapped in reply, "Fuck you, you know me, I'm not lying, _you_ are."

 

Brad squeezed his own eyes shut, feeling the heat rising in the room like a chimney full of smoke and flame. He didn't really want to look into Manson's eyes, because he had no desire to know what was going to happen. He felt like he was chewing on glass; sharp shards breaking apart to reveal infinite divisions until there were so many pieces sloshing around in his skull that he couldn't define the truth anymore.

 

Manson-- no-- Brian let out a shout of anger; a primal sound that ripped from his lungs. Brad could hear him rattling through the apartment, collecting things. He sounded like a herd of rats scurrying across a field at midnight with stolen goods clutched between their little paws.

 

"Fuck you; I'm leaving," came Brian's voice, stern and controlled, his words biting like the teeth of the aforementioned rats, and yet, Brad could hear the sound of tears building in his throat.

 

"No..." Brad murmured pathetically, opening his eyes and staring up at Brian's form, tall and majestic against the dark red doorway of the apartment.

 

Brian clutched an armful of clothes and his keys to the apartment. Stoically, and yet with tears lighting up his eyes to match, Brian stared at Brad.

 

"I can stop..." Brad pleaded.

 

"You're too fucked to say whether you can do anything right now," Brian spat, the tears now breaking free and flowing, "Fuck, I can take my drugs, Brad, why can't you just abstain if you can't?"

 

"You like control more than me..." Brad murmured, and Brian scoffed, devoid of response to that statement.

 

"Fuck you, I've emptied my stupid fucking tears, and now I'm leaving," Brian spat, "I'll be back once you're out."

 

Brad squeezed his eyes shut, to stop himself from spilling tears of his own. He felt pathetic-- a high mess on his friend's bed, encroaching on everyone. Not fit to be a bassist, friend, or lover. 

 

_You've run out of lies._

**Author's Note:**

> sorry it took me so long to start on this, my other fic whipped my ass and made me lose 8 brain cells because it was so long


End file.
